


make a bet, keep a promise

by raewrites



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Childhood, Engagement, Expanded Canon, Extended Canon, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Fluff, Future, HQBB2014, I FUCKING DID IT ??, M/M, NSFW, canon-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2379728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raewrites/pseuds/raewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sometimes, in still moments, Iwaizumi wonders why out of all the people on earth he ended up with Oikawa Tooru. Why it’s his face that lingers on his fading conscious in the last moments before he falls asleep, in the first blurry seconds upon waking up again. Why when he looks to his side, he expects Oikawa to be there in the same way he expects to see five fingers on both hands, a natural extension of himself, ever present.</i>
</p><p>  <i>Why he can’t imagine a future without Oikawa in it.</i></p><p>It begins with a bet made between the two boys in the mid-summer of their eighth year. It starts with volleyball, but like with most things involving Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime, things are never quite that simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	make a bet, keep a promise

**Author's Note:**

> Three months. Three months I've been working on this fic, and I can't believe it's finally done. 
> 
> This fic, as tagged, is set in canon-verse, but somewhere along the lines I decided to fit every single one of my OiIwa headcanons into these fourteen thousands words, so if you don't recall ever hearing about some of the nuances mentioned in here, it's probably because I snuck them in hoping no one would notice.  
> Also, of course, I know Iwaizumi and Oikawa met in elementary school in canon, but I tweaked it just a little so they've know each as babies, their parents friends before they were born. 
> 
> The song ['I Choose You'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ooiLP_zqnFs) by Sara Bareilles is to blame for the main concept behind all of this, as well as [this headcanon](http://suuuuga.tumblr.com/post/88728641572/oikawa-getting-into-one-of-his-moods-and-mumbling) I made months ago. It's totally reasonable to write an entire fic based off something you thought up at work and got a little too attached to, right? Right.
> 
> S/O to the wonderful [Ui](http://richotte.tumblr.com/), who drew [absolutely kickass art](http://richotte.tumblr.com/post/98786554883/my-hqbb-entry-with-rae-will-be-reblogging-the) for this fic. Thanks for letting me send you scene after scene as they were completed, it was great being HQBB partners with you! 
> 
> Also, thanks to all the memes on twitter who encouraged me and/or struggled with me in this endeavor. 
> 
> And of course thanks to the people who run HQBB for all their hard work. I really really appreciate it!
> 
> _Here goes nothing._

Iwaizumi doesn’t actually remember his first encounter with Oikawa. 

He remembers a lot of _early_ memories involving the other, but the first has always escaped him, lost within a conscious too underdeveloped at too young an age to really hold on to most of his ‘firsts’.

His parents have a collection of photo albums stacked precariously atop a rickety old shelf in the living area filled with pictures of Iwaizumi’s childhood, a childhood he never quite considered his own, but shared with one Oikawa Tooru.   
  
An earlier album features the two of them as infants, laid out on play mats wearing matching onesies their mothers had giggled over in the department store before finally caving in and buying. Another contains pictures of them at each other’s birthdays, covered in scraps of gift wrap, balloons tied to their wrists, cake smeared across their faces. Iwaizumi thinks he remembers accidentally poking Oikawa in the eye trying to get at some of the blue frosting in the other’s eyebrow, but maybe that’s only because of the multiple times he’s been shown said incident, frozen in the form of a glossy (albeit faded) photograph, one Oikawa never fails to point out, shaking his head and saying a mock exasperated, “So mean, Hajime, even in infancy.”  
  
Perhaps Iwaizumi can’t remember his first memory of Oikawa, but it’s difficult to recall memories that  _don’t_  involve the other in some way, memories perhaps indistinct if not for Oikawa's smile, the rising inclination of his voice just before he laughs, the brush of his skin against Iwaizumi’s; such fragments of memory bringing value to otherwise indistinguishable, vague recollections of emotion.   
  
Sometimes it hits him suddenly, the extent to which Oikawa has created patchwork of him; his habits, impressions, mindsets molded together with his own without Iwaizumi realizing, as if they had meant to be a part of him all along. Other times he notices that he’s done the same to Oikawa, conducted the same process of give and take, the two of them building from each other since the day they were born, two lives woven together into something long past inseparable.    
  
If alternate universes exist, Iwaizumi wonders if there’s one where he never meets Oikawa.

He wonders what it would've been like if they had never worn matching onesies, never celebrated birthdays together, never bumped a volleyball between each other until long past sunset; if in some alternate universe the two of them step on opposite sides of a volleyball net wearing different names across their chests. Iwaizumi wonders who he cried to, screamed at, laughed with if not Oikawa; who claimed his hushed promises, first kisses, first times, if not the boy that comprises the majority of his memory; eyes like thunder, smile like lightening.

Sometimes, in still moments, Iwaizumi wonders why out of all the people on earth he ended up with Oikawa Tooru. Why it’s his face that lingers on his fading conscious in the last moments before he falls asleep, in the first blurry seconds upon waking up again. Why when he looks to his side, he expects Oikawa to be there in the same way he expects to see five fingers on both hands, a natural extension of himself, ever present.

Why he can’t imagine a future without Oikawa in it.

Shrouded in the near-darkness of their bedroom, Iwaizumi cards his fingers idly through Oikawa’s hair, brushing them away from his forehead, revealing closed eyes and slightly parted lips, lax with sleep, breathing steady puffs of air against Iwaizumi’s collarbone.

_“Why did you have to happen to me?”_

Is what Iwaizumi had breathed, tingly and warm post-orgasm, a hazy smile hanging on his lips as Oikawa had leaned forward to press a series of lingering kisses down his neck, tracing his fingers along the ridged contours of Iwaizumi's chest. Oikawa had grinned back, knowing what the other meant without having to ask, interpreting Iwaizumi’s soft eyes and softer touch against the curve of his cheek without having to coax it out of him. They’ve both said the words so many times, its true meaning hanging in the air like an unspoken vow.

“I’m so glad you happened to me.”

Iwaizumi finds himself whispering, words lingering unheard in the dark, whispered to Oikawa curled between his limbs, peaceful in sleep, a state of temporary calm before the inevitable whirlwind Iwaizumi knows he’ll eventually have to deal with come morning. A whirlwind manifested in the form of Oikawa’s teasing tone, playful, directed at the various hickeys blooming vibrant purple against Iwaizumi's skin; in the form of Oikawa himself, hair a ridiculous mess atop his head, straddling Iwaizumi's waist, leaning down, intent to add more. 

Oikawa Tooru is a constant whirlwind, a gentle breeze some days, a tsunami most others, gravitating up and down a metaphorical spectrum in the most unpredictable of ways; a phenomenon largely uninterpretable, daunting to fully comprehend.  
  
Oikawa Tooru is a trial, one some have chosen to undertake, often given up before they’ve truly begun.   
  
He was never given a choice, Iwaizumi realizes, eyes fluttering on the brink of sleep. Oikawa Tooru was thrust upon him, a presence he doesn’t remember encountering, but an presence that’s always remained at his side, as if out of all the possible dimensions in the universe, he fits there best.   
  
Perhaps Iwaizumi wasn’t initially given a choice in regards to Oikawa Tooru, wasn’t given a choice in calling the other boy his ‘childhood friend’.   
  
But he was given the choice of  _more_ , of sealing further commitment within impulsive bets turned earnest promises, of making such bets at all, of keeping said promises tucked within his heart, perhaps cracked and strained, but never broken.   
  
As Iwaizumi gives himself over to the persistent lull of sleep, he pulls Oikawa just a little closer, the other’s hair tickling against the underside of his jaw, their limbs tangled together, woven intimacies like strings knotted with the intent to hold together rather than struggle to pull apart.  
  
Held together with promises spoken and unspoken, present anew in the form of two rings glinting in fragmented moonlight; silver confessions, sentiments wrapped around theirs fingers, reminiscent of past pinky promises.  
  
Commitment to the continuation of what they started, chosen to finish together.  
  
***  
  
“Hey! Iwa-chan!”  
  
The long-past annoying nickname cuts like an arrow through the stillness of the forest, the steady hum of crickets and gentle gurgle of water as it flows downstream drowned out by the exclamation and the following sounds of exerted breath and twigs snapping under scuffed, muddied tennis shoes.   
  
“Iwa-chaaaan! I know you’re down here! Your mom said so!”  
  
Iwaizumi, recently age eight, narrows his eyes, noting that the frog he had been previously stalking no longer occupied the rock before him, having escaped within the brief distraction. Letting his shoulders slump in disappointment and mild frustration, Iwaizumi turns, huffing before replying with a mumbled, “Over here, Oikawa.”  
  
Oikawa, also age eight as of the current day, pokes his head through a particularly thick mass of foliage masking the muddy bank of the stream from the dirt-trodden path, swiping impatiently at the low-hanging branches as they clip at his face. Trudging out of the stream, Iwaizumi meets the other boy halfway, noting the way Oikawa walks towards him with a bounce in his step, somewhat undermining the grin Iwaizumi supposes is meant to be smug.   
  
“Iwa-chan, guess what today is.”  
  
“Tuesday.”   
  
“No! Like the  _date._  It’s _special.”_  
  
“Um. Is it the…twenty..first?”   
  
“It’s not the twenty- _first!”_ Oikawa shouts, puffing out his cheeks in annoyance, balling his fists and positioning them dramatically on his hips, “It’s the  _twentieth_  of July,  _duh!”_  
  
 _“So?”_  Iwaizumi replies, tone somewhat callous for the sake of his own pride at letting such a seemingly obvious fact slip his mind, “Who even cares when it’s summer, stupid?”  
  
“Because today is super special, of course! It’s my  _birthday!”_  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“You forgot.”   
  
“Did not. I was just kidding.”  
  
“Uh huh. Then do you have a present for me, Iwa-chan?”  
  
Iwaizumi pauses, fingers fidgeting at his sides, glancing around him for a passable excuse of a present, purposefully ignoring Oikawa’s incriminating glare as his eyes eventually catch sight of another frog sitting on the opposite bank.   
  
“That frog right there.” He says bluntly, pointing towards it, "That’s your present. Happy birthday.”  
  
“You made that up.”  
  
“Okay, yeah, but I’ll catch it if you want it.”  
  
“I don’t want a  _frog_  as a present, Iwa-chan!”  
  
 _“Fine!"_  
  
The two stand defiantly against each other for a moment, putting forth their best glowers, stiffening their stances for the highest intimidation factor. But, like with most altercations between them, the promise of a pathetically brief victory is never quite worth the effort. On this particular day, it’s Oikawa who caves first.   
  
“My mom said she would take me to the store so I can pick out a present on my own.” Oikawa eventually mumbles, lowering his gaze and scuffing the toe of his shoe into the grass defeatedly, “You wanna come?”  
  
Iwaizumi sighs, enjoying his fleeting victory for only as long as it takes him to mumble a blithe, 'I guess.', pick up his shoes, and brush his hands against the front of his shorts, pacing past Oikawa through the abundance of leaves, waiting on the other side. Watching as Oikawa trips following him, foot catching under a stubborn root, Iwaizumi subdues his laughter long enough to ask, "What are you gonna get anyway?”  
  
Gathering his somewhat damaged pride, Oikawa straightens himself, looking to Iwaizumi with a challenging glance, one the other ignores, preferring instead to let the embarrassing incident pass without further teasing in favor of an answer to his question.   
  
“I don’t know yet.” Oikawa eventually replies, catching up to walk in step with Iwaizumi as the two steadily make their way home, “I told mom I was gonna get a spaceship so I could go see the aliens, but-"  
  
“They don’t sell spaceships at the store.”  
  
 _“I know that!_  And she said it has to be less than 2000 yen.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“...Good thing aliens aren’t real anyway.”  
  
***  
  
“What about this, Iwa-chan?”  
  
Iwaizumi glances up from where he had been poking at a purpling bruise on his forearm, left there as the result of their previous dispute over the existence of extraterrestrial life. He watches as Oikawa bounces over to him, holding a box in his hands, turning it around so Iwaizumi can see its contents.  
  
“A volleyball?”  
  
Oikawa nods enthusiastically, rolling back and forth on his heels in his excitement, allowing Iwaizumi to take the volleyball from his hands after a brief moment of contemplation, fingers twiddling in front of him, somewhat anxious for his friend's reaction. Iwaizumi turns the box over in his hands, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the new, unscathed surface, the volleyball shining pristine from within its cardboard confines.  
  
“What about that tennis racket you got at holiday?” Iwaizumi eventually comments, peering up to watch Oikawa’s previously animated expression dim somewhat, eyebrows knitting and lips pulling into a characteristic pout, “You never play with it anymore.”  
  
Snatching the volleyball from Iwaizumi’s fingers, Oikawa huffs, holding it firmly to his chest, “Volleyball is  _way_  better than boring tennis, Iwa-chan.” He states, matter-of-factly, eyes narrowing, lifting his chin and straightening his back in an attempt at legitimacy from his now minuscule height advantage.   
  
 _“Is_ it?”  
  
Iwaizumi half-expects Oikawa to become riled at his snide tone, but instead the other boy’s expression molds into something soft, a distinct light glinting in his eyes, a grin tugging at previously downturned lips, “Yeah!” Oikawa exclaims, and Iwaizumi is briefly overwhelmed as the other gets into his face, as if proximity is essential in properly conveying just how _cool_ volleyball is.  
  
"It’s all really fast like  _WHOOSH!_  Then  _KA-POW!_  A guy spikes it over the net and  _WHA-BAM!_  Someone else bumps it up again!”   
  
Setting the volleyball aside to make the best use of his animated reenactments, arms flailing, Oikawa pauses, suddenly jabbing a finger in Iwaizumi’s direction, the other flinching as it nearly pokes him in the eye.  
  
“But you know the coolest part, Iwa-chan?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The jump serve!” Oikawa exclaims, throwing his hands in the air once more before grabbing the volleyball from the shelf again, holding it clumsily out in front of him, one arm extended, the other bent back near his head, one eye squinted closed as he aims, tongue sticking out in concentration, “I’ll show you! It was like-"  
  
 _“Tooru!”_    
  
Both of the boys jolt in place, turning as Oikawa’s mother turns the corner of the aisle, looking at her son with suspicion bordering on the edge of enforced discipline depending on Oikawa’s next words, “Just  _what_  are you doing?”  
  
“Nothing!” Oikawa answers, a little  _too_  quickly Iwaizumi judges as the other lowers the volleyball in his hands, smiling innocently, an action that only encourages his mother to squint harder, hands resting on her hips, lips pursed. Oikawa holds the smile, cheeks aching with the effort until Mrs. Oikawa finally sighs, relenting with lack of proper evidence for any sort of conviction.   
  
“So, what do you have there, Tooru?”   
  
Dropping the act in place of genuine excitement, Oikawa holds the volleyball out to his mother, “A volleyball!”   
  
Iwaizumi notes the slight quirk of Mrs. Oikawa’s eyebrow as she looks from the item to her son, gauging the probability of such an item ending up in the back of Oikawa’s closet, gathering dust like so many other seemingly genuine interests, “Is this what you’ve picked out as your birthday present?”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
“Tooru, are you  _sure?_  If you don’t like it after a day we aren’t coming back to buy something else.”  
  
“I _kno~w!”_ Oikawa whines, briefly looking behind him to glower at Iwaizumi as if the other had been conspiring with his mother, both having commented on his fickle disposition as a ploy against his plight to obtain the volleyball hugged to his chest, “I like this one,  _really!"_  
  
Sighing with an weary yet fond smile, Mrs. Oikawa eventually nods, beckoning for the two to follow her down the aisle towards the check-out, “Alright then, boys, off we go. Oh, and Tooru, we have to pick up your sister from camp on the way home. So, yes.” She adds, cutting off Oikawa mid-grumble, “That means you’ll have to wait to play with your volleyball for a little bit. But you’ll live.”  
  
Iwaizumi suffers a pinch on the arm for snickering, but follows in step regardless as Oikawa trails after his mother, pout slowly fading from his lips as he looks down at the volleyball once more. Iwaizumi tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking up and down the other boy’s face, catching the tug of the other’s lips as he holds the volleyball a little closer to his chest.   
  
“So you’re not going to give up on this one like the others?” Iwaizumi asks, knowing he’s treading in dangerous territory, acknowledging the probability of another pinch in the arm, the chances of Oikawa snapping at him for his persistency. But he continues despite, determined to fully understand the expression on Oikawa’s face, how it appears _different_ somehow; familiar yet contrasting to past memories of other capricious whims.  
  
Oikawa huffs, looking to him, straightening himself to some degree of authenticity, “I’m  _not.”_  
  
“Wanna make a bet?”  
  
It’s a simple enough suggestion, spoken without depth past its original intentions, spoken without possibly understanding the potential for its extent, its future implications; future promises molded from the four simple words, settled deep within future hearts.  
  
“Okay!"  
  
Oikawa’s returned smirk, challenging, isn’t a proposal.   
  
 _Not yet._    
  
“You give up on volleyball, you have to do whatever I say, deal?"  
  
Iwaizumi’s spit in his hand, held out for reciprocation isn’t an ‘I do.’.   
  
 _Not yet._  
  
The hand shake, determination set in the grins on their faces, the tilt of their chins, grip firm with the stubbornness that defines boyhood, isn’t the same concept that, at the time, would make the two of them blanch.   
  
 _Not yet._  
  
 _***_  
  
Iwaizumi grew up outdoors, spending the majority of his eight years under the sweltering sun until his skin tanned to a crisp brown and sunburns themselves became a rarity exclusive to the start of summer each year.  
  
He's stopped distinguishing between purpling bruises and smudges of dirt, about which scrapes will fade to scars, or about when and how he obtained the majority of said thin, pale blemishes on his skin, etching themselves onto the ridges of his knees and around the curve of his ankles.   
  
Still growing, Iwaizumi's arms and legs are already well-defined, baby fat melting off his features like rivulets of sweat on particularly hot days, leaving developing muscle over sturdy bones, strong and stable.  
  
Such things make Iwaizumi a natural athlete, picking up sports like he's been playing them since he could  _walk._  He's not a genius by any means, but strength, a sense of balance, and precise coordination go a long way when it comes to these sorts of things.  
  
Things are different for Oikawa.  
  
Oikawa has always held more of an interest for the indoors, for television and figurines, of fighting with his sisters over whose turn it is to pick a movie, of arguing the existence of extraterrestrial life and supernatural occurances to whoever is willing to listen long enough. At age eight, his baby fat shows in the curve of his cheeks, perpetually flushed, and hangs off his arms and legs, prime areas for his sisters to pinch, a stark contrast to Iwaizumi's scrawny figure.  
  
In the beginning, sports are just another fleeting interest to Oikawa, similar to another television show he'd watch obsessively for a month straight, consequently dropping it when something new aired on the same channel. Sports were initially just a means for material gain; basketballs, baseballs, bats, rackets all gathering dust within the back of his closet, admired for their potential rather than their application. None of them stayed in used for more than a week after frustrated fumbling and consequential outbursts when Oikawa failed to reach a professional level of proficiency within the first hour of actually  _trying._  
  
(Patience, to Oikawa Tooru, has never been a virtue.)  
  
Athleticism is something Oikawa comes by  _unnaturally_. It comes by way of their bet and every sequence of events that follows there after. It comes by way of pride, determination, and Iwaizumi at his side, pushing him (see: kicking his ass) in the right direction.   
  
Not that that had always been Iwaizumi's intention. In the beginning, it hadn't been about Oikawa at all.   
  
 _"Ack!"_    
  
Iwaizumi watches as the volleyball catches the curve of Oikawa's forearm, ricochetting over his head, bouncing once, twice, three times against the padded dirt before rolling pathetically against the chain-link fence behind them.  
  
"You've gotta hold out your arms a little straighter." Iwaizumi offers, unflinching even as Oikawa snaps his head in his direction, glaring, “And move your knees up."   
  
"Yeah I keep  _trying_  that!” Oikawa cuts in return, directing his glower from Iwaizumi to the volleyball as though it's the ultimate cause of all of his downfalls.  
  
“C’mon, Oikawa.” Iwaizumi sighs, bending at the knees and holding his arms out to recieve, “Try again."  
  
Oikawa stands stubbornly solitary for a few moments before eventually relenting, walking to retrieve it, dragging the toes of his shoes on the ground as he does so, and Iwaizumi can’t help but roll his eyes at the pathetic motion. However, he’s mostly relieved that Oikawa goes to pick it up at all, that he keeps trying when Iwaizumi prompts him to, that he hasn’t given up yet.   
  
Because volleyball is  _fun._  
  
Iwaizumi’s not standing there, mid-summer sun setting on the distant horizon, elongating his shadow against the trodden dirt behind their elementary school just because Oikawa had asked him to. That's how it had started of course, Oikawa knocking furiously at Iwaizumi’s back door, volleyball under one arm, grabbing Iwaizumi’s wrist with the other, dragging him down the street, yelling, 'Volleyball, Iwa-chan, volleyball!'. But that had been hours ago, and had Iwaizumi not been enjoying himself, he would have had no qualms about returning home, no matter how loud or obnoxiously Oikawa would have whined.   
  
But Iwaizumi actually  _likes_  volleyball. He’s grown fond of the feeling of the volleyball slapping the undersides of his forearms, brightening them to a red flush. He feels exhilarated when it bounces at just the right angle, creating a high arch off his forearms, off his finger tips, or how it moves at a sharp slant when he hits it down against his palm, stinging in a way Iwaizumi never knew could be enjoyable. The basic mechanics come to him easy enough, rough at first but polishing with repetition and increased concentration forged by a will to improve, if just a little.   
  
Oikawa has a harder time, the entire circumference of his being seemingly rejecting the volleyball as if they were two opposite magnetic poles, only occasionally managing to bump the ball straight enough that Iwaizumi can return it within his physical limitations. Though the coordination of his sets seems a degree higher than that of his bumps or spikes, the rarity in which he manages to set  _well_  grates at Oikawa's innate impatience, the lines of his forehead deepening in frustration, his bottom lip chewed between his teeth in a last attempt to refrain from lashing out prematurely.   
  
However, it’s as Oikawa tries to imitate the jump serve he’d seen on TV, tossing the ball too low, swinging too late, resulting in the ball bouncing comically off the top of his head before falling to the ground that Iwaizumi can’t help but burst into laughter, and Oikawa’s fuse ignites.  
  
“Stop laughing!” Oikawa yells, stomping a foot on the ground as Iwaizumi tries to stifle his laughter, bringing both hands up to cover his mouth.  
  
“I can’t help it, that was funny!” He admits, mumbling through the gaps between his fingers, another snort of laughter sneaking through as Oikawa rubs his head with a deep pout. When Iwaizumi eventually evens his composure, swallowing down the remainder of his laughter, he paces over to where the volleyball lies near Oikawa’s feet, picking it up and pushing it encouragingly against Oikawa’s chest, though the other keeps his arms stubborning at his sides, “You just have to keep practicing.” Iwaizumi says, nudging Oikawa with the volleyball, intending to continue, but Oikawa abruptly cutting him off.  
  
“Why are you so good at it already?” He whines, finally snatching the volleyball out of Iwaizumi’s grip, frowning, “That’s not _fair!”_  
  
“I don’t know!” Iwaizumi huffs, brushing his hands against the front of his t-shirt, “I just am.”  
  
“Well, I’m _quitting._ I don’t like volleyball.”  
  
“If you quit, you lose the bet.”   
  
Oikawa’s eyes widen, mouth opening as if he intends to argue, though it eventually closes into a thin line as he realizes where he stands in such an argument. To Iwaizumi’s credit, he doesn’t relent one bit, going so far as to cross his arms over his chest, tilting his chin in challenge as Oikawa muses over his next words.  
  
 _“Fine.”_ Oikawa spits, forcing the word through stubborn lips, “You win, Iwa-chan.”  
  
“So you have to do whatever I say.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess.”  
  
“Keep playing volleyball with me until our parents call us in.”  
  
 _“Hey!”_ Oikawa yells, the volleyball dropping to the ground as he balls his fists at his sides, glaring at Iwaizumi’s unrelenting expression, “You can’t-!”  
  
“Yeah I can!” Iwaizumi yells in return, poking a finger to Oikawa’s chest before leaning down to pick up the volleyball again, “You have to do whatever I say, those are the rules. You _shook_ on it!"  
  
“Yeah, but-"  
  
“No buts.” Iwaizumi says, firm, leaving no room for counterargument, “If you don’t, I’ll never make another bet with you ever again.”  
  
Oikawa pauses, the two of them staring uncompromisingly at each other for long enough that Iwaizumi begins to think that Oikawa will just walk away, turn his back on him and never pick up his volleyball again. Iwaizumi feels a sinking sensation in the pit of his gut at the thought of it, gripping the volleyball tighter in his fingers. He’s about to repeat himself when Oikawa finally lets out a long-winded whine, taking the volleyball from Iwaizumi and pacing a couple steps backwards, holding it out for a toss, the expression on his face strained, but compromising.  
  
“Okay fine, because I promised and  _I_  don’t break promises.” He says, and Iwaizumi feels the corners of his lips tug into a grin, one that persists and eventually makes its way onto Oikawa’s lips as they continue, arduous at first, but slowly piecing together into something manageable. When they achieve a six hit rally, the two of them leap in the air, arms extended, before circling excitedly around each other, yelling to the sinking sun of their victories, small but no less meaningful in what they’ve accomplished.  
  
As Iwaizumi drifts to sleep in his bedroom that night, he wonders about volleyball. He wonders what it would be like to be able to play it again, play it in a gymnasium, or one of those big stadiums on TV, the ones Oikawa never stops talking about. He wonders if Oikawa is thinking the same thing, or whether the other has decided to quit after all, his volleyball retiring to dust gatherer among so many other fallen ambitions.  
  
Iwaizumi wonders if he still _wants_ to play volleyball if Oikawa quits, if it would be the same without the other at his side like he always has been.  
  
Oikawa doesn’t give him the opportunity to find out, however, when he returns the following morning at Iwaizumi’s back door, eyes bright and grin set in place as he looks over Iwaizumi’s ruffled self, still in his pajamas, previously asleep before his mother had called him downstairs.  
  
“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa says, tone teasing as he looks his friend up and down with a disapproving look, “You can’t play volleyball in pajamas!”  
  
“Volleyball in wha-?”  
  
 _“Volleyball!”_ Oikawa repeats, louder, shoving said object of interest in Iwaizumi’s face, startling the other into a less bleary state of consciousness, “Hurry up and get changed so we can go!”  
  
“You still wanna play?”  
  
“I was just kidding about quitting yesterday.” Oikawa replies, almost too defensively, and though Iwaizumi sees right through the other's prideful facade, he can't be bothered to care, not if it means what he thinks it means.  
  
“Bet still on then?” Iwaizumi asks, already ready to bolt upstairs and throw on a new pair of clothes, but staying to hold the other’s grin, matching it on his own lips, waiting for the words he never knew would become so important, so vital concerning volleyball as well as everything _else._ In that moment, however, volleyball is the only confirmation he’s yearning for.  
  
 _For now._  
  
“Yeah,” Oikawa replies, holding the volleyball tighter to his chest, feeling his heartbeat in his fingertips, as confident, as steady as his next words, only the first of many to follow.   
  
“Bet still on.”  
  
***  
  
Time passes faster than Iwaizumi can quite remember.   
  
Monotonous years drift past one by one, the only seemingly notable changes the increasingly brash tint of his language choice and the sharpied marks donning the kitchen door frame of his childhood home, a tradition his mother insists on, cooing each year at how much he’s grown, Iwaizumi himself putting up with her hand ruffling through his hair with strained compliance so very characteristic of adolescence.   
  
The sharp sound of volleyballs slapping their skin, the red flush decorating their forearms, and the sweat dripping from their brows make their way from under the setting summer sun to suffocating gymnasiums; the blood, sweat, and tears previously experienced exclusively between the two of them now shared with other young boys in their newly joined volleyball club.   
  
Iwaizumi notices it early on, the difference in attitudes between their teammates and Oikawa. Iwaizumi detects the pure determination set in Oikawa’s eyes, lit anew after the revival of their bet, one the other intends to keep if purely out of spite; one Iwaizumi is simply glad Oikawa keeps at all.   
  
Oikawa shines in elementary and middle school, ‘A real diamond in the rough.’, as their coach comments one day; perhaps a bit rugged around the edges, but with potential for polishing, eventually revealing something truly amazing shining beneath. It’s noticeable first in the way Oikawa learns to set, fumbling fingers steadily steeling under even the most poorly received balls, creating beauty out of blunders. It’s noticeable in the way Oikawa estimates the best possible toss for Iwaizumi even before he realizes it himself, how the ball flies through the air towards him at just the right angle, its sole purpose for his palm to connect to its surface, spiking it clear over the net with a definitive slap against the opposite side of the court floor.   
  
It’s clear the first time Iwaizumi looks from his palm to Oikawa, the first time they catch glances and simply  _comprehend_  on a level that doesn’t allow for words, doesn’t  _need_  words to convey such a connection.  
  
“They’re perfectly in-sync.” Iwaizumi remembers hearing, eyes cast to listen in on two of his teammates as they split up for a brief water break during the spring of their second year in junior high, “Oikawa and Iwaizumi, it’s _crazy.”_  
  
“They’ve known each other their whole lives, I hear.” The other had said with a shrug, lifting his water bottle to his mouth, “Just be glad they’re on  _our_  team.”  
  
He had told Oikawa about the exchange later, untying his shoes at the end of practice, looking to the other as if gauging his reaction, forgetting why he was so keen on it in the first place. Iwaizumi remembers Oikawa’s eyebrows quirking, remembers the slight tug of a smile on his lips, amused in a way Iwaizumi wishes he could fully comprehend.   
  
“Perfectly in-sync?” Oikawa had repeated, light tone muddling any expectations Iwaizumi had held, “What do you think, Iwa-chan?”  
  
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you, dumbass.”  
  
“I suppose we are.”  
  
Iwaizumi had paused, squinting at his kneepad slid halfway down his calf before looking up to catch Oikawa’s glance, the grin on the other's lips set as if the entire conversation had been a part of some plan he himself had set in motion, owning the observation as if it belonged to him, as if he had intended for it to define him, define  _them._  
  
“What does that even mean?” Iwaizumi had mumbled, snatching his eyes away to toss his kneepad into his duffle, “To be perfectly in-sync?”  
  
“Maybe it means that I can read your mind, Iwa-chan.”  
  
“You can’t read my mind.”  
  
“Let me try!”  
  
Before Iwaizumi can voice any sort of protest, Oikawa is leaning forward on his hands and knees, moving into Iwaizumi's space, eyes squinted as if sheer willpower could create a neurological bridge between them.   
  
“Oikawa, cut it out-"  
  
“Agedashi tofu.”  
  
Iwaizumi had lept to his feet, eye wide and finger pointed incriminatingly at the other’s knowing smirk, Oikawa beginning to cackle as Iwaizumi had fumbled for his words, “That’s not fair! It’s because I’m hungry and you already know my favorite food, dumbass!”  
  
“I’m a mind reader!"  
  
“No you’re not, that’s not possible!”  
  
“But I got it  _right,_  Iwa-chan.”  
  
 _“Shut up!"_  
  
***  
  
It's harder the  _second_  time they lose to Ushijima Wakatoshi.   
  
It's harder after the initial thrill of a difficult opponent wears off, after the brightness in their eyes fades with another defeat, closer this time but just as definitive, the final score 17-25 still fresh against the back of Iwaizumi’s eyelids as he hears Oikawa sit down hard on the metal bench of the locker room, fingers gripping into his sweaty kneepads until his knuckles turn white.   
  
Iwaizumi’s surprised the other can manage words at all, biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, spitting through gritted teeth with greater ferocity than a thirteen year-old should rightly possess.  
  
“Next time.” Oikawa says, dangerous, guttural from the back of his throat, “We’ll  _destroy_  him.”  
  
Iwaizumi can only nod, the act of holding eye contact with Oikawa similar to holding a scalding brand against his side, tearing his eyes away after a period of time that could have been ten seconds, could have been thirty, both of them unflinching in their stances, until he eventually says, “Of course we will.” Concrete, absolute by belief alone,  _naive_  perhaps too generous a descriptor for the blind determination in their eyes.  
  
After that, volleyball becomes more than a sport to Oikawa, it becomes a  _conquest_. It becomes not only a goal towards victory, but a way of enforcing absolute defeat on others, a will for dominance to make up for his losses.   
  
As their second year wanes on, Iwaizumi begins to notice darkness surrounding Oikawa's being like storm clouds drifting over a distant horizon, promising torrential rain and winds strong enough to tear down trees. Iwaizumi can hear thunder with each of Oikawa's sets against his finger tips, with each haughty proclamation, and with each calculated look, pulling his lip between his teeth.   
  
Lightning finally strikes at the start of their third year at Kitagawa Daiichi, when a genius joins their midsts in the form of first year prodigy, Kageyama Tobio.   
  
Had Oikawa been anyone else, the competition would have been welcomed; a drive to sharpen his own skill, to stand out to his coaches, feeling thrilled at the prospect of a skilled teammate, having been previously unmatched in his diligence.   
  
But Oikawa is fourteen years old, immature, jealous and compulsive, self-destructive in his ambitions, dangerous as a hurricane, a flood of frustration and envy barely contained within the levees of his being, cracks beginning to show in the form of gritted teeth, perpetually tense shoulders, and the increasing recklessness of his movements, ankles twisting, knees buckling under hasty, frantic one-up attempts.   
  
Oikawa becomes familiar with bandages and pain relievers like Iwaizumi becomes familiar with his outbursts, the two of them often the last to leave evening practice, Oikawa unleashing pent-up frustrations to Iwaizumi’s stern disposition, growing only more hysterical with time, body breaking down in similar pace to his outward composure.   
  
“He’s another damn genius!” Oikawa screams one night, taking aim and kicking a stray volleyball clear across the gymnasium, “He’s another Ushiwaka!  _Fuck!”_  
  
“But he’s a genius on  _our_  team, dumbass!” Iwaizumi retaliates, fed-up with Oikawa’s childishness, exhausted of his defeatist tone, of the petty anger, all too keen on removing the blinders Oikawa is wearing were they not purely metaphorical.  
  
“You’re taking  _his_  side?!” Oikawa hisses, glowering, furrowed brows and eyes like poison, catching Iwaizumi’s gaze like a viper sinks its teeth into flesh.  
  
“I’m not taking _anyone’s_ side!” Iwaizumi yells in return, pacing purposefully in the other’s direction, picking up Oikawa's jacket off the floor and shoving it to his chest, “You’re being ridiculous, Oikawa. The kid admires you for fuck’s sake, and  _you’re_  the one out for blood.”  
  
In that moment, Oikawa’s glower, fists clenched at his sides, is only a heavy wind, thunder still muffled with distance, the smell of rain only an omen for now. However, though it’s not necessarily unusual for Oikawa to turn his back on him without another word, it’s still enough to unsettle Iwaizumi as They begin, subtle at first, but intensifying the longer Iwaizumi stops to _notice._  
  
The Warning Sirens.  
  
***  
  
Iwaizumi saw it coming. There’s a reason he was there the night It happened.   
  
The feeling of dread gnawing at his intuition, anticipating impending causality, frustrations built upon for months; of thunder loud enough to rattle walls, of counting the seconds until lightening inevitably follows, splitting the sky in a sudden burst of concentrated energy.   
  
His fingers around Oikawa’s wrist are firm, watching as shame falls like a curtain over Oikawa’s features, his shoulders slackening, the quiet ‘Sorry.’ between his lips like a kick to Iwaizumi's gut.  
  
He almost doesn’t want to let go of Oikawa in that moment.   
  
 _(He wants to pull him closer.)_  
  
They end up at Iwaizumi’s house, sitting together on the floor of his bedroom, workbooks open but untouched on their laps, the only noise in the room the fan spinning above their heads. Iwaizumi hardly remembers what he had said just a half hour ago, Oikawa’s practice shirt gripped between his fingers, feeling adrenaline like a frantic pulse, words rushing out as they came to him, hoping they were more coherent than they sounded to his own ears.  
  
Despite the other’s ‘I suddenly feel invincible.’, Oikawa's demeanor seemingly lifted, Iwaizumi still had to practically drag him from the gymnasium, pulling at the back of the other’s collar when his grin eventually faded and he began to stare distantly at his hands, zoning out for a few moments at a time before Iwaizumi would wave an irritated hand across his face, snapping him out of it.  
  
“Homework at my house tonight.”  
  
“I don’t really-"  
  
“Too bad.”  
  
The exchange had been brief, Iwaizumi almost surprised at how quickly Oikawa had relented, holding Iwaizumi's gaze for a few moments before dropping his head with a sigh, picking up his duffle off the ground and hooking it over his shoulder, following without continued struggle, unnerving but not unappreciated in light of Iwaizumi’s current effort.   
  
They endure a silent walk under flickering streetlights, Oikawa's feet scuffing against the pavement with each step, something Iwaizumi would have pointed out in annoyance had it been any other situation.  
  
 _(I’m not leaving you alone._  
  
 _I don’t_  want  _to be alone.)_  
  
Iwaizumi stares at his workbook, tapping his pencil against the crease in the binding, unable to focus for more than a couple seconds at a time with Oikawa so tense beside him. Usually Oikawa is unable to sit _still_ , often getting up to settle himself on the bed, feet dangling off the end, flipping himself around three minutes later before eventually standing to pace as he works, pencil between his teeth, humming obnoxiously to the point where Iwaizumi threatens to tie him down if he doesn’t quit it. Seeing Oikawa stationary, legs crossed under him, hunched over, gaze directed at the characters before him, eyes unfocused and uncomprehending is enough to set Iwaizumi on edge.  
  
“Hey, Oikawa-"  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Oikawa’s voice is mumbled, but even, followed by a heavy sigh as the other finally lifts his head to look at Iwaizumi, nudging him with his elbow, “For... _you know._ ”   
  
Iwaizumi's next words are so obvious he doesn’t even think as he says them, they simply fall between his lips, routine; their mantra, the support when their foundations begin to crumble.  
  
“Bet still on, right?”  
  
When Oikawa smiles, it feels as though a fist around Iwaizumi's gut has relinquished its grip, allowing him to breathe without fracturing fragility just barely held together. When Oikawa nods, tossing his head with a scoff, replying, “Of course the bet’s still on.” Iwaizumi finds himself smiling as well; smiling because not only are they okay  _now_ , but they always _have_ been.  
  
 _(And always_  will  _be.)_  
  
At the time, Iwaizumi only has suspicions about the emotion swelling within his chest, flooding between his ribs and enveloping his heart. He pins it as relief, relief in the way Oikawa revives before him, a wilted plant aligning itself to sunlight once more, finding the energy to lift the burden of its own weight and continue on.  
  
Only in Iwaizumi's subconscious does he know it’s something more. Only in his subconscious does the idea of it seem at all conceivable, the forefront of his thoughts pushing such notions to the recesses of his mind along with other perceived impossibilities, to  _maybe_  be considered later.  
  
(See: Preferably never.)  
  
(See also: Much sooner than he’ll ever be ready for.)  
  
Iwaizumi’s _not_ in love with his childhood friend.   
  
He’s not in love with the same person who gave him more than a few scars from more than a few accidents, who dragged him to the convenience store on the corner to split a popsicle he bought with loose change scavenged from between couch cushions, who pointed to distant planes on the horizon and whispered,  _‘Aliens…’_ , staring in wonder as Iwaizumi rolled his eyes behind him.   
  
Iwaizumi’s not in love with a living, breathing hurricane. He’s not in love with torrential rain that soaks him to the bone. He’s not in love with violent gales of wind strong enough to sweep him off his feet. He’s not in love with a storm in human form, eyes like earth-shattering thunder, smile like brilliant flashes of lightning.   
  
Iwaizumi's  _not_  in love with Oikawa Tooru.  
  
(Oh, but he  _is._ )  
  
(And it’s absolutely  _terrifying_.)  
  
***  
  
High school is better for Oikawa, and by association, better for Iwaizumi as well.   
  
High school is a step forward, a step away from the immaturities that Iwaizumi had found himself long exhausted of, away from a team they’d outgrown together, onto a fresh court with fresh teammates and fresh bonds to be made, stretched, tested without previous affinities conflicting.   
  
Iwaizumi remembers first receiving their team jerseys, remembers glancing to his side, noticing the gentle curl of Oikawa’s lips as his fingers gripped the mint fabric in his hands, fists clenched tight as if a loose grip would take it away from him; holding on to the jersey like a lifeline, an opportunity, a fresh start, one he so desperately needed. Iwaizumi remembers his own chest swelling with indescribable emotion, remembers trying to conceal the grin tugging incessantly at the corners of his lips, remembers feeling the distinct warmth of relief pulse in his chest, eliciting a content sigh from between his lips.  
  
“What’s that for?” Oikawa had asked, eyes pulling away from the jersey in his hands to train them on Iwaizumi, curious, “Did you get the wrong size or something?”  
  
“Nah.” Iwaizumi had mumbled, turning the jersey over once more in his hands before balling it up, tossing it unceremoniously into his duffle before slinging it over his shoulder, “It’s good.”  
  
“Yeah.” Oikawa replied, quiet within an exhale of breath, giving his own jersey a last look before doing the same, “It _is_ good, huh?"  
  
Perhaps others would think of Oikawa’s behavior uncharacteristic in the moment the other boy pauses just before zipping up his duffle, taking a last fond look at the jersey tucked between half-empty water bottles and scuffed shoes. Perhaps others would think of Oikawa as vulnerable in that moment, weak, prone to destruction for the split second a genuine smile graces his lips, expression softer than most ever get the chance to see it.  
  
But Iwaizumi knows.  
  
In this moment, Oikawa is  _truly_  more invincible than ever before.   
  
Iwaizumi knows Oikawa hasn’t forgotten, won’t forget, may never  _truly_  let go of his momentary breakdown, momentary loss of logic, blinded by ambition soured to bitter violence. Knows that somewhere buried in the labyrinth of Oikawa’s subconscious, among repressed memories that that specific moment shines like a beacon, hardly shrouded by the shame and regret Iwaizumi remembers seeing in his eyes the moment he secured a firm grip around the other's wrist, previously tense muscles slackening under his touch.   
  
Iwaizumi knows it's that moment that fuels Oikawa today and every other day on the volleyball court, never letting up for a single moment, putting every ounce of his strength, will, and being into his sets and serves; expression pulled into something so focused, determined, aggressive that when Iwaizumi catches it directly, the flash of primitiveness in Oikawa’s eyes hold him for a moment, a moment in which he’ll forget to breathe, surroundings molding into an indistinguishable blur of movement, feel something like fear spike down his spine, feel something like arousal build somewhere even lower.   
  
However, even as Oikawa becomes stronger, more fearful from the opposite side of the net, Iwaizumi begins to notice cracks in his plated armor.  
  
It's subtle at first, starting mid-way through their second year in high school, the cringe that suddenly breaks the accomplished smirk following one of Oikawa’s service aces. At the time, Iwaizumi had thought he had imagined it, imagined the shiny exterior that composed Oikawa’s being break for just a moment; his quick intake of breath, bitten lips, and squinted eyes revealing themselves for less than Iwaizumi can fully process, left with only vague suspicion as Oikawa catches his incredulous look with a teasing grin.  
  
“Such a good serve you couldn’t even look away from me, huh, Iwa-chan?” He chides, cocky and irritating familiar.  
  
“Probably a fluke.” Iwaizumi frowns, knowing very well at this point in Oikawa’s volleyball career the serve was anything  _but_  a fluke. Nonetheless, he turns away quickly with a grunt , ignoring Oikawa’s snicker of amusement as he palms the ball in his hand once more, pacing back from the service line, the brief concern Iwaizumi had felt previously fading into distracted absence.   
  
However, the concern resurfaces months later when Oikawa tries to hide it.   
  
“You’re walking with a limp.” Iwaizumi states, deadpan, without room for counter, without room for any of the bullshit he knows Oikawa will inevitably toss out, matched by his bullshit grin, clumsy handiwork over cracks Iwaizumi sees clearly now, past suspicions molding into concerns tugging at his heart with borrowed guilt every time he puts off addressing Oikawa directly. Only recently did he become too tired of the guilt lying heavy on his chest, inhibitions finally cast aside along with his patience as he says, “You can’t keep practicing like this if you’re injured, Oikawa."  
  
They exit the Aobajousai gymnasium, the last to leave the grueling mid-summer training session, sun setting deep in the sky, casting an orange hue over their surroundings, shadows stretching long across the pavement in front of them. Humidity hangs like a damp towel over them, not yet dissipated into the night, and Iwaizumi wipes his brow of sweat, prickling with heat.   
  
“I’m fine.” Oikawa replies, the light, easy tone of his voice grating against Iwaizumi’s nerves, his blatant lie cutting like a knife into Iwaizumi’s nearly nonexistent patience.   
  
“No you’re not, moron!” Iwaizumi yells, sounding more aggressive than he had initially intended, stopping in place, fists clenched at his sides, “Don’t fucking lie to me!"   
  
Iwaizumi feels a pulse of satisfaction when Oikawa stops, turning to face him, grin gradually fading from his lips, replaced with a slight frown, eyes narrowed.  
  
“Why do you do it?” Iwaizumi continues, sharp, meant to pry at the holes in Oikawa’s armor, meant to snag the truth hidden beneath, “Why don’t you take care of yourself, dumbass?”   
  
Oikawa manages a grin again, casually falling back into a lean against the gymnasium wall, and Iwaizumi feels like throwing punches, “Dumbass  _is_  the only insult you know, isn’t it-"  
  
 _“Shut up!”_  Iwaizumi seethes, reaching forward to fist his fingers in the fabric of Oikawa’s jersey, “Stop ignoring it like it doesn’t matter! What the hell’s wrong with you?!”  
  
“I could ask you the same thing, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa replies, tone a dial lower, more dangerous, distant thunder in a storm they both know is coming, though his easy smile persists, “I’m not the one lashing out."  
  
“I’m not the one continuing to overwork themselves despite an injury,  _Oikawa.”_  Iwaizumi barks, gripping tighter, “You realize how fucking stupid that is, right?” Iwaizumi notes the way Oikawa’s eyebrows pinch, grin steadily building into a glower, “You’re working hard but what good is it going to get you if you injure yourself in the process? If you can’t play anymore? What then?”   
  
Then Iwaizumi pauses, his tone low as he suddenly realizes, as he connects the miscellaneous pieces in his mind, catching Oikawa’s expression as he does so, the other scowling as though he dares Iwaizumi to say it.  
  
“It’s Kageyama, isn’t it?” Iwaizumi says, more of a statement than a question, only confirming as Oikawa breaks eye contact, "He’s entering high school this year. You’re doing it again, you’re-"  
  
 _“Shut up.”_  Oikawa hisses, standing up straighter, gripping a hand on Iwaizumi’s shoulder and pushing hard enough that he stumbles backwards, “You’re not my fucking babysitter,  _Hajime.”_    
  
Iwaizumi’s eyes narrow, the venom in Oikawa’s voice as he hisses his first name stinging more than he wishes it would.   
  
It’s when Oikawa says a defiant 'I can look after myself.’ that Iwaizumi feels himself truly boil over, lashing out without thinking.  
  
 _“Can you though?!"_  
  
He regrets the words the moment they leave his lips, hanging heavy in the air, creating a deafening silence between them. Guilt clenches like a fist around his heart when he catches the glint of frustrated tears in the corners of Oikawa’s eyes, taking a tentative step forward, voice like a hammer to glass silence.  
  
“Hey, Oikawa, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”  
  
Iwaizumi expects Oikawa to do a number of things; to scream at him, sting him with words mean to harm in equal measure; to lash out with his fists, fists Iwaizumi braces for at he takes another step towards the other; to walk away, knocking shoulders, cold, barely composed. Iwaizumi plays each of these scenarios in his head, prepares for them, but couldn’t possibly prepare himself for what Oikawa does instead.   
  
It starts quiet, so quiet Iwaizumi’s sure he’s hearing things.   
  
But suddenly Oikawa is lifting a hand to his face, laughing between his fingers, growing more hysterical until he's bent over in convulsive laughter, shoulders shaking violently with the motion. Iwaizumi fidgets as Oikawa’s fit begins to die down after a minute, the hand that was previously reaching out falling to his side, unsure of what to do or say to such a bizarre reaction.   
  
“Oikawa I-"  
  
 _“God_ , Hajime, you never deserved to get stuck with someone like me, huh?”   
  
Oikawa’s grinning again, though the motion falls far from his eyes, still wet with tears, tone quiet, defeated as he slumps against the gymnasium wall. Iwaizumi feels his chest constrict with too many emotions fighting to surface; pity, anger, frustration, guilt, adoration all knotted within him, pushing and pulling, fighting to form words Iwaizumi’s not sure he wants to say right now, wants to say  _ever._  
  
Iwaizumi’s not sure if he’s ready for this conversation, ready to unravel seventeen years worth of knots woven and tangled between them, strings strung carelessly over, under, between each other, a spectrum of emotions, conscious and unconscious, the tangled result of harsh words, raw confessions, promises made and kept, confusion and immaturity like twin tsunamis bringing destruction to anything Iwaizumi’s ever tried to piece together.   
  
Iwaizumi  _knows_  he’s not ready.  
  
But.  
  
 _“Are you fucking kidding me?”_  
  
Oikawa stares at him from beneath damp eyelashes, blinking in something like apprehension, and Iwaizumi wishes he could say he was collected in the other’s place, but he feels like he’s falling apart at the seams, unraveling with each confession that falls clumsily from his lips.  
  
“You really think I’ve stuck around all these years out of  _habit?_  Because I had  _nothing better to do?_  You don’t think I would have up and left if I had really wanted to? You’re a goddamn  _moron_ , Oikawa.”   
  
Iwaizumi feels nauseous, numb, both absent and present, feels like running, like stepping closer all at the same time.   
  
Fear prickles at the back of his neck and Iwaizumi is suddenly aware of how exposed he feels, his own metaphorical shield deconstructing, individual plates removed to reveal something raw beneath, something Iwaizumi had forgotten existed buried within him.   
  
But he knows they’re true, every single word, absolute truths engraved on his heart years ago, brought to light for the first time.  
  
"I didn’t get  _stuck_  with you, I  _chose_  you. I chose you when we were kids, I chose you back in middle school, I’m choosing you now, and goddamnit I’ll choose you  _tomorrow_  and every day after that, okay? That’s just how it is."  
  
When Iwaizumi finishes, he can’t tell if those are words forming between Oikawa’s parted lips, doesn’t really want to find out as he closes the remaining distance between them, taking hold of the front of Oikawa’s jersey between his fingers like a hope he didn’t know was desperate, a risk he never thought he would be willing to take.   
  
Suddenly realizing both, he leans forward, and presses their lips together.   
  
There's a surprised gasp from Oikawa, the other tensing for a moment under his touch before he eventually crumbles beneath him, makeshift, unsteady foundations finally collapsing, finding support in the feeling of Iwaizumi’s lips, his hands against him, fingers curling in the hairs at the back of the other’s neck.   
  
Iwaizumi has never pined for Oikawa, never truly built up the idea of kissing him in his mind, never put such an event atop a pedestal of incidents he yearned for, stayed up into late hours of the night thinking about. Kissing Oikawa wasn’t something he had planned, but something that simply  _happened,_  the result of rash action without consideration of consequences, a leap of faith without knowing if a safety net lay beneath.   
  
Perhaps the intermingling of their breaths, the almost desperate sliding of their lips and tongues against each other, too rough, too unpracticed, was some sort of predestined event, something that was  _meant_  to happen, a notch of great importance on a predetermined timeline, a memory in motion, one the two of them would look back on with fond tones of, ‘Remember when?’; because Iwaizumi can’t deny the overwhelming feeling of puzzle pieces locking into place, notice how the lines of Oikawa’s body fit seamless against him, quietly admitting to himself that he prefers Oikawa’s cocky grin when he can feel it against the curve of his lips.  
  
When Iwaizumi pulls away, it’s more for the sake of breathing rather than any sort of dramatic effect, said breath leaving him when Oikawa’s tongue swipes between his lips, eyes meeting Iwaizumi’s hooded gaze. For lack of anything better to say, Iwaizumi clears his throat, and mumbles their mantra, a promise to replace another, one they’re not quite ready to admit.  
  
“The bet’s still on, dumbass.”   
  
Oikawa’s laugh is relief, genuine as it graces Iwaizumi’s ears, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he tilts his head, matching the smile spreading across Iwaizumi’s own lips, “Not even going to give me a choice, Iwa-chan?”   
  
Iwaizumi probably shakes his head, mumbling something close to a, ‘Hell no.', but he doesn’t quite remember, too caught up in the unarmored Oikawa before him, cracks like the scars of healing wounds, exposed but not exploited, shared, not stolen. It’s only Oikawa's easy sigh that pulls him back, his eventual, sincere, “Yeah, bet’s still on. I promise."  
  
With a good-natured huff and a nod, Iwaizumi turns, only noticing the heat flushed across his cheeks when his back is turned away, mumbling a, ‘Good.' he hopes isn't as shaky as it sounds to his own ears as he offers another invitation.  
  
“There’s ice back at my place for your ankle.”  
  
“Oh, are you going to nurse me back to health, Iwa-chan?”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“Make me~”  
  
“Give me a second and I’ll shove my shoe down your throat.”  
  
“Okay, not like that.”  
  
They settle into a comfortable silence as the sun sets in the sky, and as day gives itself to night Iwaizumi finds familiarity in their bickering, words playful and harmless, building blocks towards the foundations of the trust between them; perhaps building blocks towards the foundations of something else, a support to the sudden but pleasant unfamiliarity Iwaizumi notes in the atmosphere surrounding them as they walk side by side, shoulders brushing, hands close enough to interlock.    
  
Perhaps others would think of their behavior uncharacteristic in the moment the two of them walk beneath towering streetlights, flickering like the fond smiles they’re fighting to repress in failed attempts to retain their composures, hearts light in their chests, unburdened in the absence of tangled emotions. Perhaps others would see them as vulnerable, exposed without their armor to protect them, bare and helpless in the face of whatever the future has in store.   
  
But Iwaizumi knows, and as Oikawa’s fingers brush against his and stay there, he realizes Oikawa knows as well.  
  
In this moment, they’re more invincible than ever before.   
  
***  
  
Oikawa isn’t subtle the first time they talk about  _it_ , though he’s never really been subtle about _anything._ He suggests it seemingly out of nowhere, the two of them sitting cross-legged on the floor of Iwaizumi’s bedroom, facing each other, texts books open in their laps, surrounded by a hazardous scatter of notes, pens, and post-its, the anxiety of a particularly daunting test looming over their shoulders. It’s as Oikawa lifts his head with a heavy sigh, dropping his pencil to the crease of his book and bringing the heels of his hands up to rub his eyes that he says it, casual, as if he were stating the weather, or any other trivial subject of small talk.   
  
“I wanna do it.”  
  
Iwaizumi furrows his eyebrows, finally finishing the last line of the paragraph he’s re-read at least four times before he eventually glances up to catch Oikawa’s expression, the other looking to him with a roguish glint in his eyes unbefitting of their current situation, his lips smug like he knows it pisses Iwaizumi off. Iwaizumi’s first reaction is confusion, the phrase ‘I wanna do it.’ having made various appearances in their lives up to that point, anything from punching their classmate Yamamoto in the nose to stealing a popsicle from the local convenience store.  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“Sex.”  
  
Iwaizumi drops his own pencil, fumbled between his fingers, blushing a subtle pink starting from the back of his neck and reaching the tips of his ears, somewhat scandalized though also not at all. It’s not like he hadn’t expected it, they had been  _“officially”_  together (“We’ve  _always_  been together, after all, Iwa-chan.” “Yeah, yeah.”) for two months, and Oikawa has never been one for patience or taking anything ’steadily’. And if Iwaizumi is honest, the prospect of touching Oikawa in all the ways he’s now allowed doesn't seem like a half-bad prospect.   
  
“Right now?” He asks, voice as even as he can manage, not quite meeting Oikawa’s eyes, but picking up his pencil again and twirling it between his fingers to demonstrate some degree of composure. Oikawa crinkles his nose, scoffing, and Iwaizumi glares, resisting the urge to reach over and push the other over into a particularly crooked stack of books.  
  
“Are you that eager, Iwa-chan?" He goads, though Iwaizumi's finds complacency in the subtle flush of pink tinting the curve of Oikawa's own cheeks, "Of course not right now. Take me on a proper date first. Do I look like a sleaze to you?”  
  
“I could punch you.”  
  
***  
  
For all of their eagerness, their first time is slow, cautious, their touches soft, hesitant on each other’s skin; asking, confirming, proceeding with a gentleness neither knew the other capable of.  
  
Oikawa’s bedroom is shrouded in late-night darkness, heat and humidity lingering into early-fall only a slight degree cooler than the temperatures mid-day, and Iwaizumi can feel sweat slick down the back of his neck and the small of his back. Oikawa lies bare-chested beneath him, his hips situated between Iwaizumi’s legs, fingers curling under the hem of Iwaizumi’s t-shirt and tugging, Iwaizumi complying as he reaches behind him to grab the back collar, pulling the material over his head. Oikawa reaches forward to take it from him, balling it between his hands before tossing the crumpled shirt to the opposite end of the room, discarded amongst a heap of dirty laundry Oikawa had never gotten around to. (Iwaizumi himself half to blame in that regard, putting up little opposition when Oikawa had opted instead to pin him against the back of the door, sucking his tongue between his lips.)  
  
Oikawa is hot to the touch, heat like small flames licking just under the surface of his skin as Iwaizumi presses the pad of his fingers against the dip between Oikawa’s ribs, tracing them feather-light down the length of his abdomen, the smooth curves of his muscles like small waves under his touch, rising into him as Oikawa breathes, quivering just enough that Iwaizumi glances up to meet his eyes.  
  
“You alright?” He asks, genuine, the pad of his thumb rubbing encouraging circles against the soft skin just above Oikawa’s naval.  
  
"You're being so gentle." Oikawa breathes with a shaky laugh, tone soft, maintaining its teasing inclination despite the tremor in his voice, hypersensitive, goosebumps dotting his arms and raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Then he grins up at Iwaizumi, speaking his next words with the playful air Iwaizumi is so achingly familiar with, “I’m not used to it."  
  
"Shut up, I can be gentle." Iwaizumi protests in defense, though his tone is equally soft, anything louder seeming too harsh in the stagnant darkness of the room.   
  
But his hands are shaking too, overwhelmed by the notion of Oikawa's bare skin as something he can touch now, that such things are no longer unatainable beneath cotton shirts and a lack of conventional intimacy, all of which now lies out before him, almost too much to fully comprehend, let alone react to in any sort of physical capacity.   
  
"You're staring." Oikawa says, tilting his head to the side against the crumpled pillow, smirking like he isn't just as apprehensive.   
  
Iwaizumi draws his eyes from Oikawa’s chest to his eyes, finding himself matching the smirk on Oikawa’s lips, finds himself breathing a snort of laughter, quiet at first but gaining momentum as Oikawa joins with a small series of giggles, the muscles of his abdomen contracting as he curls into himself, arms crossing over his chest, fingers clutching his sides as they burst into a chorus of shared laughter.    
  
Laughter at each other, at themselves, of their embarrassments and insecurities, of realizing they share both, the anxiety of pushing previously defined boundaries, wondering how such a leap will change them, or _if_ it will change them at all. The sound of their riled laughter, echoing off the bedroom walls, tears glinting in the corner of their eyes, is only further confirmation that, like with most everything else, they’re in this together.  
  
“Here.” Oikawa says, voice airy even a minute after they’ve both calmed down, laughter fading as they catch their breath and wipe tears from their eyes, “Give me your hand."  
  
Taking one last deep breath, Iwaizumi holds his hand out for Oikawa, the other securing his fingers around his wrist before guiding it to his skin, dragging Iwaizumi’s fingers against the dip in his own collarbone. Iwaizumi’s breath hitches slightly in his throat, feels numb to every end of his body save the ticklish feeling of Oikawa’s flushed skin against his fingertips.   
  
Oikawa’s gaze catches him like a flame to paper, engulfing him, feeling as though he’s being ignited at the tips of his fingers, flames licking up his arms and flushing across his chest down to the very tips of his toes, drawn in completely by the boy beneath him; feeling a calm stillness despite the whirlwind in Oikawa’s gaze, the eye of a hurricane, perpetual safety at the center of wild unpredictability.   
  
It’s a place Oikawa has allowed him to reside, subsiding gales of wind and side-slashing rain to present a vulnerable calm, his fingers gripping slightly tighter as he guides Iwaizumi’s touch to the base of his stomach, the dip of his hips, biting his bottom lip between his teeth, holding Iwaizumi’s gaze as though it’s the only force anchoring him within his own storm.  
  
“You okay?” Iwaizumi asks again, barely audible despite the silence, broken only by the rhythmic creak of the fan above them. He’s asking Oikawa, but he could be asking himself for all it’s worth, as it’s Oikawa’s hand leading him further downwards, brushing against the waistband of his shorts, the two of them acknowledging the elastic barrier as one would acknowledge a brick wall spanning for miles in both directions.   
  
Iwaizumi is the first to take a metaphorical sledgehammer to said wall when he slides the palm of his hand against the front of Oikawa, pressing the heel against the bulge of Oikawa’s cock through the material, watching as Oikawa chokes a gasp in the back of his throat, the fingers still around Iwaizumi’s wrist flexing against his pulse, quickening as Oikawa allows a low moan to escape his lips when Iwaizumi repeats the action.   
  
It’s not that Iwaizumi hasn’t become accustomed to it since that day, but, like he’ll most likely remember the last, the first is distinctly prominent in his memory; watching as the other lets down inhibitions Iwaizumi never quite realized the other still held, arching into Iwaizumi’s touch, guided by Oikawa’s physical cues. The way his hips arch, his head lolls to the side, pulls his lips between his teeth like Iwaizumi has seen so many times, though never like this; when Oikawa himself uncovers what stops his breath is his throat, where his nerve endings ignite like firecrackers, white light becoming familiar even behind closed eyelids, his own body a phenomenon he's only just begun discovering, Iwaizumi drawing a map with his touches, hesitant at first, but steeling with confidence as Oikawa reciprocates with keening moans and erratic breath.  
  
When Oikawa breathes his name, Iwaizumi tenses, and the other whines as Iwaizumi's fingers pause against him, the echos of the three syllables resonating within him.   
  
 _“Hajime_."    
  
The way it ghosts from his lips, hitched at the end when he had gasped. Iwaizumi's only ever heard it in a mocking tone, when Oikawa is imitating his mother, hissing it at the back of Iwaizumi's neck once she’s walked away, Iwaizumi burning to the tips of his ears, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand to keep from turning around and smacking the teasing grin off the other's face and causing himself more trouble. He’s only every heard it in the midst of an argument, the harshness of their first names always causing greater damage than familiar nicknames when it comes to intended harm.  
  
But it's difficult to describe how his own name could possibly sound so new to his ears in that moment. Iwaizumi allows it to echo until it becomes familiar, until it becomes something Iwaizumi wouldn't mind hearing again and again, an anthem he could never truly get tired of hearing.  
  
Oikawa huffs again in impatience, and Iwaizumi cracks a smile, adjusting to lean fully over him, catching Oikawa’s lips with his own, kissing him as fiercely as he feels, crashing against him like waves to a shore, swallowing Oikawa’s moans between his lips.   
  
 _“Tooru.”_  He whispers against the hinge of Oikawa’s jaw when he pulls away, just loud enough for the other to hear, to hitch his breath as Iwaizumi twists his wrist enticingly, pressing kiss after kiss up the length of Oikawa’s neck, breathing encouragements against the rapid flutter of his pulse, lips eventually coming to curl against the curve of the Oikawa's ear, whispering for him to come, watching as he does, unravelling beautifully under his fingers. Oikawa tenses, head thrown back against the bedsheets, biting his bottom lip through a last, drawn-out moan as Iwaizumi strokes him through his orgasm, hips shaking, thighs quivering with hypersensitivity until he finally wraps his fingers around Iwaizumi’s hand on his cock, stopping him so he can gather a sufficient amount of air into his lungs.   
  
Muscles relaxing to scattered bliss, Oikawa finally opens his eyes, tilting his head to catch Iwaizumi’s eyes, his name whispered within each exhale of breath, ghosting from his lips like it's always belonged there.   
  
 _“Hajime.”_  Oikawa breathes, somewhat grated, throat raw from the verbal strain of his loudest moans, capturing another lungful of air to make for all that’s escaped,  _“Hajime.”_  
  
“That’s my name.” Iwaizumi says, quiet, almost embarrassed at the way Oikawa is looking at him, eyes glinting from underneath his eyelashes, half-lidded, dazed as he stares up at him, lips curling into a satisfied smile.  
  
“I know. That’s why I’m saying it.”  
  
“You're saying it  _a lot.”_  
  
“Are you blushing?”  
  
“No,  _you’re_  blushing.”  
  
“Well, yeah, because I just came. You did that, remember?”  
  
 _“Oh my god.”_  
  
Oikawa grins, muscle strength seemingly returned as he sits up, lifting his hand to cup it against the curve of Iwaizumi’s jaw, pulling him in for another kiss, slow, lips moving almost lazily against each other, opening givingly to the other. Iwaizumi can feel the warmth of Oikawa’s skin against his cheeks, feels oddly exhilarated as he realizes he’s the one to have caused the pink flush across the bridge of Oikawa’s nose, the tips of his ears, the back of his neck.   
  
“Well, you  _did.”_  Oikawa murmurs against his lips and Iwaizumi feels his heart leap in his chest as Oikawa spreads his fingers flat against the width of his bare chest, coaxing him backwards against the sheets, kneeling over him.   
  
Oikawa is the physical incarnation of a perfect mess, hair sticking up at an odd angle in the back, threaded with sweat, lips gleaming a deep red, swollen with attention, thin trails of come drying against the lean ridges of his abdomen as he speaks low with intention, “Now I wanna try.”  
  
Iwaizumi settles against the bedsheets, attempting to even his breath as Oikawa’s eyes survey him up and down, a single finger already trailing down his side, eliciting a shiver from the base of his spine. Despite his nerves, Iwaizumi feels contentment like a comfortable buzz under his skin, feels safe under Oikawa’s touch, feels loved when the other says his name like a treasure, forming each syllable between his lips like he’s sharing a secret only the two of them share.   
  
To say that things changed that night, Iwaizumi recalls later, is an understatement, if not completely inaccurate as a whole. Because the two of them didn’t so much ‘change’ as they ‘progressed’, working with what they already had, harnessing potentials into woven intimacies, strung together with practiced trust and innate familiarity, clumsy at first, but mending to endearments surpassing irreversibility.  
  
The name  _Tooru_ , as it turns out, is _much_ easier to say with repetition.   
  
***  
  
“I remember when I first met you.”  
  
“Fuck off, no you don't.”  
  
Oikawa rolls over, grin plastered across his face, tugging up just a little higher on one side, crooked, just off-kilter of perfection that Iwaizumi finds himself matching it, if only slightly. Oikawa leans up on his elbows, resting his chin on the palm of his hand as he gazes at Iwaizumi from beneath the mess of his tangled bed head, a streak of late-morning sunlight casting itself across the bridge of his nose from between the window curtains of their bedroom.  
  
 _Their bedroom_ , Iwaizumi repeats in his mind, recalling the tedious weeks leading up to such a declaration. Of the following months within their shell of a home, boxes cluttering the already narrow walkways, the two of them splayed out on the kitchen tile, sweating through their shirts as they wait for the installation worker to call them back, the fan stretched between them only a slight relief as Oikawa had mumbled a pathetic, 'All I want for my twenty-first birthday is air conditioning. That’s it.' and Iwaizumi had rolled over to press a kiss against his temple before getting to his feet with a groan and a, ‘I’ll try calling again.’  
  
All of the stress of moving in together, of time-consuming logistics, of being put on hold for absurd lengths of time, of arranging and rearranging furniture by the day, all of it to be able to lie in bed with Oikawa at his side, perfectly familiar in the comfortable lull of late-morning.   
  
“I do!” Oikawa insists, tilting his head, sticking out his bottom lip in a childish pout, somehow still befitting of his matured face and Iwaizumi can’t help but roll his eyes in return.  
  
“You’re a liar. That’s not possible.”  
  
Oikawa huffs, though a grin eventually persists through previously half-hearted pouting, and Iwaizumi is briefly reminded of streaks of sunlight breaking through wispy trails of clouds. Eye half-lidded and inquisitive, Oikawa unfolds his other arm to press a single finger into Iwaizumi’s bare side, causing the other to flinch in reaction.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
Sighing in gentle exasperation, Iwaizumi half-heartedly swats Oikawa’s hand away from him, sitting up a bit straighter against the headboard, “Because you were like two weeks old the first time my mom brought me to meet you.” Eyes squinting slightly in consideration, Oikawa persists despite Iwaizumi’s counter movements, tracing his fingers up the curve of the other’s side to brush against the gentle ridges of his abdomen, humming quietly under his breath to a song Iwaizumi knows he recognizes from somewhere, but can’t quite pin.  
  
“Okay fine.” Oikawa eventually relents, dropping his hand to instead collapse himself dramatically onto Iwaizumi’s chest, the other choking out a surprised gust of air from the base of his lungs.  
  
“Goddamnit, Tooru.” Iwaizumi gasps before continuing in his attempt to catch his breath, eyes narrowing as Oikawa lifts his head, resting his chin upon his knuckles as he situates himself fully on top of Iwaizumi, knees bent easily between Iwaizumi’s legs, smiling at him from between the breadth of Iwaizumi’s ribs.  
  
“Maybe I don’t remember the first time I met you.”  
  
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t remember either. And I was a whole month and a half old.”  
  
Laughing at Iwaizumi’s borderline sarcasm, Oikawa sighs an equally teasing, “Zero consolation but I appreciate the effort, Hajime.”  
  
Iwaizumi allows a breathy chuckle to escape between his lips and Oikawa huffs at the disturbance as the other's chest heaves gently with the motion, only escalating when Oikawa leans down to brush his lips against Iwaizumi's still sleep-flushed skin, grinning mischievously as Iwaizumi makes a weak effort to stop him, kicking his feet between labored laughs as the other’s fingers begin to curl torturously against his sides.  
  
“Hey, cut it out!” Iwaizumi gasps, reaching out a hand to push against Oikawa’s teasing ministrations, fingers curling in the other’s hair, pushing it back from Oikawa's forehead, revealing playful eyes beneath.  
  
Resisting the other’s grasp for only as long as it takes to plant another wet kiss against Iwaizumi's chest, Oikawa props himself up to straddle the other's waist, sitting back casually as Iwaizumi attempts to straighten himself higher against the headboard of their bed, crossing his arms behind his head, watching as Oikawa pulls idly at the drawstrings of Iwaizumi’s pajama sweats, curling them around his fingers.  
  
“How much longer are we going to keep it up, Hajime?”  
  
The question catches Iwaizumi off guard, sounding as though as it should hurt, should warn the beginning of something's end. But the lingering smile on Oikawa’s lips, Iwaizumi thinks, feels more like the dull side of a knife pressed into his skin rather than the sharp.  
  
“Keep what up?” He asks after a moment, biting the inside pocket of his cheek, silently willing for Oikawa to look up and meet his eyes, give him something he can read rather than the temporary mask hiding whatever truths linger in his words.  
  
“Our bet.”  
  
The following silence isn’t uncomfortable, necessarily. It isn’t something Iwaizumi feels is strained, not something he’s cracking with each of his breaths, with each steady rise and fall of his chest as he holds Oikawa’s expression, the other twirling the drawstring around his index finger, eyes meeting Iwaizumi’s with a question he already knows to answer to, the morning sunlight pouring over his shoulders.  
  
“Until one of us loses, I guess.”  
  
There’s the faintest smile on Oikawa’s lips as he directs his eyes away from Iwaizumi's, letting the drawstring fall from within his grasp in favor of trailing the fingers of his right hand around Iwaizumi’s naval, seemingly absent movements feeling strangely concentrated as Oikawa flicks his gaze up Iwaizumi’s chest to his face, expression fond in a way that tugs at the base of Iwaizumi’s heart, something like adoration swelling there, something like earnest reciprocation following at Oikawa’s next words, spoken hushed yet unmistakably impassioned.  
  
“What if I told you I’m never going to allow myself to lose.”  
  
It shouldn’t have counted as a proposal in any conventional sense, stubborn more than anything, like Oikawa always has been; the continuation of a battle that long outgrew petty, childhood competition; the affirmation of willingness to keep going, to hold on to whatever it is that they’ve created, whatever they _are_ like they always have, constant, unyielding, balanced like an ocean tide, ebbing and flowing almost predictably so.  
  
“This isn’t about volleyball anymore, is it?”  
  
Iwaizumi feels heat like a sweeping caress across the bridge of his nose when Oikawa shakes his head, biting at his bottom lip as they tug into a grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the motion, as bright, as radiant as the sunshine shining through the window behind him. Iwaizumi feels emotions expanding beyond what his physical body could possibly contain, seeping out in breathy laughter, reaching out to brush his knuckles against Oikawa’s cheek.  
  
“It hasn’t been about volleyball in a long time."  
  
They aren’t snotty kids anymore, and ‘I love you’s no longer feel clumsy when said aloud.  
  
Oikawa uses them freely, quipped at the end of sentences meant to rile Iwaizumi; daily confirmations, almost unnecessary reminders of something they could never possibly forget.  
  
Iwaizumi says ‘I love you’s like he says small revelations, inklings of knowledge, of understanding the extent to which Oikawa has latched himself firmly around his heart. But sometimes he’ll find himself suddenly and completely caught off guard, distracted by the simplest nuances; the way Oikawa threads his fingers through his hair, the slight hitch of his breath right before he laughs loudest, the way his lips tug up slightly higher on one side than the other. He notices these things, discovers them over and over and feels his breath leave him for a moment, stops and stares until Oikawa’s eyes are squinting at him, until the words are falling between his lips.  
  
“I love you, Tooru.”  
  
Iwaizumi says it within his breath, quiet enough to draw Oikawa closer, loud enough to be heard clearly, holding them in place, fond smiles and further affections unspoken but acknowledged, comprehended on a plane of consciousness only the two of them occupy.  
  
The first ring he buys for Oikawa doesn’t fit, reaching as far as the other’s knuckle before lodging itself there, to the point where their combined efforts and a handful of soap are just barely enough to pry it off again.  
  
 _“It’s the wrong size.”_  
  
 _“I can see that.”_  
  
Oikawa had raised an eyebrow, tilting his head in a teasing manner, one Iwaizumi squints at, finding learned suspicion in the grin on the other’s lips, waiting for the jab he’s about to encounter.  
  
 _“I was the one to propose_ and _I got your ring size right the first time? You’ve gotta step it up, Hajime.”_  
  
 _“You didn’t really propose.”_  
  
 _“But you really said ‘I do’.”_  
  
Iwaizumi had huffed, absently twisting his own ring, a simple, silver band around the base of his ring finger, feeling the engraving gentle against his skin. He finds comfort in the feeling of it there, the words themselves leaving small indentations in flesh, permanency in physical form.  
  
 _“You’re the one who started this whole thing, remember?”_  
  
Oikawa had said a few days before, the two of them sitting at their small table huddled against the back wall of the kitchen. Oikawa had had his knees pulled up to his chest, balancing his coffee mug on the ridges of his knees, looking at Iwaizumi, head tilted, not so much asking as stating.  
  
 _“You want to be more specific?”_  Iwaizumi had asked in return, leaning backwards in his own chair, balanced precariously on the two back legs in the way his mother had always hated when he was a child.  
  
 _“The bet.”_  
  
 _“Yeah, over volleyball. And, well, other things.”_  Iwaizumi had mumbled in reply, wondering why Oikawa’s expression seemed so concentrated when the other was usually drifting in and out of consciousness at this time in the morning,  _“We talked about this the other day.”_  
  
 _“You started it.”_  Oikawa had repeated, and Iwaizumi would have pointed that out had Oikawa not suddenly stood his feet, the coffee mug in his grasp nearly spilling onto the table as he had hastily set it down,  _“But I want to be the one to start_ this.”  
  
 _“Start what?”_  Iwaizumi had asked, somewhat alarmed as Oikawa had began frantically rifling through his sweatpants pockets,  _“What are you-?”_  
  
 _“Shit, hold on!”_  Oikawa had exclaimed, putting up a hand as if Iwaizumi planned on going somewhere in his ruffled sleep shirt and boxers with a hole in the crotch, before bolting out of the room.  
  
Iwaizumi had leaned his chair forward, trying to decipher the series of noises drifting down the hall from their bedroom. Dresser drawers opening and closing, Oikawa’s own hushed muttering to himself, increasing in both volume and profanity until Iwaizumi finally hears a distinct ‘Aha!’, followed shortly by the other strolling back into the kitchen, looking as though he hadn’t just used every obscenity Iwaizumi himself was personally familiar with.  
  
 _“Tooru, what the hell-?”_  
  
 _“I’m making a new bet.”_  Oikawa had interrupted, and Iwaizumi’s eyes had drawn themselves to Oikawa’s hand, fingering at something within his pocket,  _“I bet you can stay with me for the rest of your life.”_  
  
Iwaizumi remembers staring at Oikawa, staring at the silver ring held firmly between his fingers. He remembers feeling overwhelmed, but oddly content, watching as an event he had anticipated within his subconscious, mused about with little seriousness, had happened before his eyes. He remembers being unable to stop smiling, lips pulling into a grin as if there were strings tied to the corners, laughing as he had replied with a teasing,  _“It’s not really a bet if I agree, you know.”_  
  
But Oikawa had grinned away, relief relaxing the anxiety tensing his posture, tilting his head playfully as he replies, _“Is that an 'I do'?”_  
  
 _“Is this a proposal?”_  
  
 _“Yes.”_  
  
 _“Then, I do."_  
  
Some nights, when the skies are clear of clouds grazing the horizon and moonlight shines unhindered through their bedroom window onto their nightstand, Iwaizumi can make out the engraving on his ring, catching the light just so, illuminating it prominently in the otherwise shadowy room.  
  
It’s cheesy, and when he takes the time to truly notice the feeling of the grooves against the soft juncture of his finger, he can’t believe Oikawa actually paid someone to do it. At the same time, the very idea of its absence feels like a dull ache, the words themselves a small, but prominent part of himself he can’t remember not possessing now that it’s become such a defined part of him, part of _them._  
  
 _Bet still on?_  
  
The characters, small enough to wrap themselves halfway around the inside of the band, echo in Iwaizumi’s mind, memories of fluorescent, department store lights, of sun sets, of iris storms, of Oikawa’s wrist, his jersey, under Iwaizumi's fingers. Of unraveling at the seams, of blood, sweat, and tears, of crumbled aspirations, of realities too heavy a weight on their shoulders, made bearable by the curl of Oikawa’s lips against his, of something not so much shared as a single entity in itself, occupying them both.  
  
He had had Oikawa’s ring fixed eventually, the band fitting ‘Like a glass slipper.’ Oikawa had said with that smirk of his, Iwaizumi watching him long enough to see it soften, the other turning the band in his fingers before stopping suddenly, biting his bottom lip between his teeth after an audible hitch in breath.   
  
There are engravings on the inside curve of Oikawa’s ring as well, words never explicitly spoken between them, but the words they’ve always implied.  
  
The _true_ answer to the question they’ve been asking each other for so many years.  
  
 _Then._  
  
 _Now._  
  
 _Tomorrow._  
  
 _Forever._  
  
 _Bet still on._


End file.
